


Now What I'm Going to Say May Sound Indelicate

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Because they've both been drinking, Canon Era, Confessions, Consent Issues, Constitutional Convention, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Infidelity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Romance, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 18:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: For a ridiculous instant, Washington wishes he were sober. His head is such a whirlwind of drink and desire, and he knows tomorrow his memories of this will be fuzzy and fragmented. God damn it, he wants to remember. If he can only have this once—and surely he can only have this once—he wants the memory to be clear and vivid. Curse the wine blurring his thoughts and making his head heavy.Then again, if he were sober—if either one of them were sober—this wouldn't be happening at all.





	

This is a different sort of exhaustion than he's used to.

Washington knows damn well what it's like to be tired—to fight through fatigue because there's work to be done—to stay focused and alert when all his body wants is to collapse in a corner and not move for hours. He lived through most of the war that way: wrung dry and tapped out, yearning for home and for a proper night's rest. Painfully aware that he couldn't afford a single misstep. If he faltered, the continental army would falter with him, and failure wasn't an option.

If it weren't for Hamilton, always at his side, always working twice as hard, Washington doubts they could have won the war at all.

The Constitutional Convention is a different sort of battle. It doesn't wear him down physically. He has comfortable chambers, a sturdy bed, good food just a summons away. But there are other ways to drain a man's spirit. Putting him in charge of a room full of squabbling infants masquerading as politicians, for one. Washington has been doing his best to contain and direct this circus for _weeks_. The mental and emotional effort is starting to wear him thin.

At least Hamilton is here. Not at Washington's side, not _his tool_ to use and lean on the way he could during the war, but Hamilton's presence is still a bright glint in that otherwise stifling gallery. Hamilton glows even brighter when he actually speaks, a familiar inferno of light and energy that will not be contained.

He still takes Washington's breath away.

Washington wonders at his own foolishness. The war has been over for years. He should be well past the need to guard his heart, to pretend away the not at all paternal warmth he feels for his former chief of staff. He kept his secret amid death and desperation and close quarters. It shouldn't be such a challenge to manage himself here, perfectly safe and surrounded by men whom Washington barely tolerates.

But he is tired. And Hamilton is _here_. And Washington has missed the boy—the brilliant young man who is not a boy at all anymore—more than he ever intends to admit.

"Your Excellency." Hamilton's voice sounds close.

Washington raises his eyes, surprised to discover he's not alone in the room.

Madison's notes are an orderly stack before him, though Washington was not truly reading them. Merely doing his best to look busy until the gallery emptied, to avoid being cornered by the more persistent delegates. There are those who hope, even three weeks into the proceedings, that it might be possible to charm extra support from Washington. An idiotic notion. Washington dislikes politicians. He would not be here at all if Hamilton didn't write such persuasive letters.

The dimly lit meeting room is empty but for the two of them, and Washington straightens the papers before him. He will leave them for tomorrow; they'll be secure enough once the gallery door is locked.

Washington rises from his chair, palms braced flat on the table. He tries to be subtle as he takes Hamilton in with an appreciative sweep of his eyes. The flamboyant green attire suits him, as does the careless fall of dark hair down to his shoulders. Hamilton looks as poorly rested as he did during the war, but the shadows beneath his eyes do nothing to diminish the pleasing lines of his face.

Washington blinks. Hears his own voice belatedly answer, "Hamilton. What can I do for you, my boy?"

Hamilton's eyes narrow at the old habit—the _my boy_ that slips thoughtlessly out—but Washington honestly can't tell if he's displeased at the address. His expression is familiar mischief. This isn't the first time he's hovered close in order to exchange greetings with Washington, or to extend an invitation to dine with other delegates, but there's something deliberate in his presence now. Something that tells Washington his purpose is far from casual.

"I wondered if I might be of service tonight," Hamilton says. "As a friend rather than a delegate."

Washington's brow furrows faintly. It's a singular offer, considering… well. Considering that, as close as they grew during the war, he and Hamilton _aren't_ quite friends. They're allies, certainly. Colleagues, compatriots, brothers in arms. They're intimate in ways that are difficult to articulate. There is no one else Washington trusts as completely as he trusts Alexander Hamilton, and he hopes the feeling is in some way mutual. But they haven't always parted on the best of terms, and they have not always understood each other as they should.

Hamilton doesn't seem offended by Washington's obvious confusion. If anything, his expression softens into something that might almost be affection. "You're tired."

"Yes," Washington agrees, still uncertain. "That's hardly an unusual state of affairs."

"It's getting worse," Hamilton observes, far too gently. "I've been watching you closely, sir. And I know you better than most. The past couple days have been especially trying."

Washington quashes a prickling rise of defensiveness. "It's… frustrating. To watch grown men behave poorly."

"It's more than frustrating." Fire flashes in Hamilton's eyes, but banks quickly. "You deserve a break."

"I can't leave," Washington protests. The convention may be dragging on for what feels like an eternity, but it will continue onward as long as it takes. There are no easy answers in sight, and Washington's duties hold him trapped in Philadelphia to see this through.

"No, you certainly can't." Hamilton smiles. "But you _can_ share dinner with a friend. Unload your burdens a little."

There it is again, that word _friend_. Spoken so easily and simply that Washington finds it impossible to question. Hamilton _does_ consider him a friend. The realization is so unexpected and welcome that Washington's hands tremble for a moment before he clasps them behind his back.

"I wouldn't want to impose."

Hamilton's expression falls serious. "You're never an imposition, sir. Dine with me tonight. Please." A hint of mischievousness returns. "It's late, and I've liberated the best wine from my delegation's private stores."

Washington snorts, not quite a laugh but close. He knows just how Hamilton feels about the other New York delegates—how obstructive and ugly their presence at this convention—and the thought of drinking their wine _does_ carry powerful appeal. Especially when Hamilton has already gone to the trouble of stealing it. It's probably excellent wine, too. Well worth the effort.

"All right," Washington says. It's a challenge to keep his expression stern when his agreement makes Hamilton's face light up with obvious pleasure. "Lead the way."

He's more grateful than he probably should be when Hamilton leads him back to private quarters instead of out in public. He would certainly have followed Hamilton to some outside dining establishment if pressed, but he much prefers privacy and solitude. If they are going to drink good wine and converse as friends, Washington would rather not have to watch his tongue for fear of being overheard and accused of slander. He has a good deal to complain of if Hamilton is earnest in his offer to listen.

Hamilton's chambers are significantly smaller than Washington's, but perfectly well furnished. A small bed, a sturdy desk, an incongruously large wingback chair in the corner by the shuttered window. A lamp burns bright against the late hour, scaring away the darkness and making the little room surprisingly inviting. Despite the overwhelming heat of summer, the air is almost temperate. It's a relief after the crowded meeting room, full of arguments and far too many men.

The food is adequate, cold cuts of meat and hard cheese awaiting them on the desk, consumed and then cleared away like an afterthought. The wine is significantly better, red and dry and smooth on the tongue. Washington has tasted finer, yes, but not since departing Mount Vernon to attend this accursed convention. He does his best not to dwell on the small pleasures he leaves behind him whenever he departs from his home, but he will certainly enjoy _this_ while it is on offer.

He drinks more than he intends, enough to loosen both his posture and his tongue. Surely there's no harm in it. Hamilton is certainly accustomed to Washington's candor. And if Washington's mouth runs away with him, giving voice to complaints about the overeducated dullards who keep running the convention aground, well. There's no harm in that, either. Their years together have taught him trust in Hamilton's discretion.

In any case, Washington is not the only one who drinks more than he should. Hamilton matches him glass for glass. And as Washington's perceptions blur around the edges, he sees the unmistakable sheen of inebriation in Hamilton's eyes. The carelessness of his slouch where he sits on the edge of the desk—leaving the lavish chair for Washington despite the fact that Washington is far too restless to sit—the amused smirk at one corner of Hamilton's distracting mouth.

Hamilton's _mouth_. Generous and expressive and maddening. Washington reminds himself repeatedly not to let his gaze linger, and he prays Hamilton is drunk enough to overlook his distraction. It won't do to give himself away. God damn it, _this_ is why Washington doesn't drink with Hamilton.

But he is here, and he is drunk, and he can't bring himself to wish the circumstances away. He feels more tranquil than he has in weeks. Lighter in his own head, calmer where his heart beats in his chest. Easier in his skin, thanks as much to Hamilton's company and willing ear as to the alcohol softening his senses.

Washington pauses in his pacing, stopping before the desk. Hamilton is watching from his perch, knees bent and legs dangling against the front of the desk, palms pressed flat to the surface as he leans just slightly back. Perfectly at ease. Not quite smiling but, Washington thinks, enjoying himself. Two wine bottles sit on the desk beside Hamilton. One is completely empty, the other dwindling alarmingly.

A new silence settles between them, unexpected and not entirely comfortable. Washington's face is warm from the wine, and he's standing closer than he should. It's suddenly difficult to meet Hamilton's eyes. Washington's gaze keeps threatening to rove, to devour the rest of Hamilton's figure so perfectly displayed beneath tightly fitted breeches and stockings. It's been hours since Hamilton abandoned his coat in favor of shirt sleeves, and his cravat is rumpled and off center.

The wine has stained Hamilton's lips a deep burgundy. He looks absolutely decadent, and Washington's resistance crumbles in a single staggering instant.

One step is all it takes to reach the edge of the desk. Hamilton's legs, already splayed where he sits, part wider to allow Washington close. There's confusion in Hamilton's eyes, and one corner of his mouth turns downward. He doesn't flinch at the hand Washington sets atop his thigh, or the fingers that curl beneath his chin—doesn't resist Washington's touch tilting his head back so that their gazes lock at close range.

"Sir?" Hamilton asks, soft and uncertain. His dark eyes are wide, his mouth ajar. He looks perplexed.

Washington lets his hand slip from Hamilton's jaw to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through soft hair. Tugs him forward and leans down, closing the distance before he can think better of his actions.

Even frozen with surprise, Hamilton's mouth is every bit as soft as Washington imagined. He tastes of the wine they've both been drinking. And when Washington's tongue slips tentatively forward, Hamilton's lips part for him, stillness melting away. He slides the hand on Hamilton's thigh higher and tugs him toward the edge of the desk, pressing their bodies more intimately together. He is greedy for Hamilton's heat, for the mouth beneath his own, for the quiet sound of surprise Hamilton breathes into the kiss.

Washington's hands are restless, wandering selfishly—stroking along Hamilton's spine, curling at his hip, tangling in his hair—almost frantic with the need to touch everywhere at once.

It's with jarring clarity that Washington recovers himself, reality descending over his alcohol-fogged mind like a thunderclap. Guilt crashes over him, and he releases Hamilton's mouth, tenses to retreat. Apprehension winds tight in his chest as he opens his eyes—he doesn't remember closing them—to find Hamilton staring at him in winded shock.

Before Washington can take a step back, desperate hands are grabbing for him. Hamilton's hands are shaking, but they're also determined. Twisting firmly in the fabric of Washington's waistcoat. Keeping him close.

"Please don't stop." Hamilton stares up into his face, making no effort at all to mask the raw tumult of feeling in his expression.

"I'm sorry," Washington whispers. He is guiltily aware that he still hasn't taken his hands off of Hamilton. That their bodies are still sharing intimate and inappropriate proximity. That he is apologizing for something he has not actually _stopped doing_ , and he's a hypocrite of the worst sort for it. He does not get to have this. He does not get to _take_ this. Hamilton is not his to possess. "I shouldn't have done that."

"You're wrong." Hamilton shakes his head hard. "You should have done it years ago."

Washington freezes, grip tightening reflexively where his fingers are still curled at Hamilton's nape.

"I don't know what you're talking about." It's a blatant lie. Washington has never been a good liar.

Hamilton's expression eases back from its wild surprise, something softer rising instead. Hamilton's fingers loosen, too, and he shifts his grip. Presses a palm flat to Washington's chest directly over his heart. Slides the other arm down to curl around his waist as though to tuck him close. He leans in, nuzzling beneath Washington's jaw, nosing at the skin just above the line of his cravat.

"There's no point lying about it." Hamilton murmurs the words against Washington's speeding pulse. "I was there. I know you wanted me."

"I—" Washington's voice catches in his throat, and he swallows thickly. It shouldn't astonish him to discover that Hamilton already knows his most closely guarded secret—or that even during the war Hamilton knew just how fiercely Washington coveted him—that his own efforts at subtlety were apparently useless.

"It's okay." Hamilton stretches up to nip at his earlobe, catching it between teasing teeth and then licking the sting away. "No one else could see it. No one else knows you the way I do. They couldn't imagine what it meant when you looked at me like… God damn it… Like you could barely stop yourself from bending me over on top of all those maps and orders and reports. No one had any fucking idea the things you wanted to do to me."

Washington shivers and bites back a groan. His head spins, from the wine and from this new information. Was he really so transparent? So obvious in the desires he thought hidden?

Even before he speaks the words, he knows just how much a hypocrite they paint him. "I would never have—"

"Shhh." Hamilton nuzzles closer. "I know. _I know_. How many years did I stand by your side, and you never touched me. God, I _wanted you_ to touch me. But you were too honorable."

Washington breathes a shattered sound, his breath feathering the hair at Hamilton's temple. "Not so honorable now, it seems." He sounds small and terrified, nothing at all like his usual air of control.

"This is different." The hand over Washington's heart slips higher, begins to fumble with his cravat. "You're not my general anymore."

"Alexander," Washington breathes. It's not the first time he's used Hamilton's given name, but Hamilton shivers against him, fingers stuttering in their efforts to yank the neckcloth free.

"You have _no idea_." Hamilton sounds frantic now, voice pitched low but still desperate with feeling. "How many times I almost came to your tent, your quarters. I thought— I thought if I offered, if I begged you to take me…"

" _Alexander_."

But Hamilton just presses on in a rush of honesty. "But it would have destroyed you, to have me that way. It would have ruined us. You'd have sent me away for sure, and I couldn't—" Hamilton's voice cracks, overwhelmed with emotion, and Washington's heart lurches painfully at the sound. The raw ache of confession. 

Hamilton is right. Washington would never have been able to refuse if Alexander begged, but it would have torn him apart to know he'd taken advantage of the boy. To have abused his position, to have taken such liberties with a subordinate. He couldn't have lived with himself. He certainly could not have kept Hamilton at his side, knowing he'd already given in to temptation once, knowing he would surely repeat his mistakes.

When Hamilton eases back, Washington allows it, meets his eyes as steadily as he can. They're both holding on too hard now, and there are questions in Hamilton's face.

"Am I wrong?" Hamilton asks, suddenly uncertain. Beautiful. Terrified.

Washington cannot lie to him now.

"No," he admits past the erratic staccato of his own heartbeat. "You're not wrong about any of it."

He has never wanted _anyone_ the way he wants Alexander Hamilton. He doesn't know how to cope with this complete and desperate desire to drag Hamilton harder against him, to bend him over this very desk, to put him on his knees. To claim and possess him in every way. To _take him_ , as Hamilton so crudely put it, and take him so thoroughly that there is no going back.

There's no telling who moves first. They come together in unpracticed unison, and Washington buries both hands in Hamilton's hair, tilting his head farther back, staking deeper claim of that soft and willing mouth. Their first kiss was startled heat, but _this_ kiss knows nothing of surprise. It's fierce and bruising, a wildfire of need. There's something nearly obscene in the way Hamilton opens for him, the moan he breathes around the rough thrust of Washington's tongue.

A quiet knock at the door startles them apart. Hamilton's hands fall away as Washington retreats clear across the tiny room. Washington is breathing too hard, painfully aware of the stiff arousal straining beneath his breeches. He is uncomfortably warm, and he doesn't know where his cravat has gotten to.

The chair is before him, and Washington collapses into it. The deep shadows won't conceal his presence, but perhaps they will conceal the shameful state of him.

The knock sounds a second time before Hamilton shakes himself and slides from the edge of the desk. He moves for the door without doing anything to manage his appearance, his footsteps mostly steady, hips swaying in a way that does not seem at all practiced. He raises the latch, opens the door a sliver. Voices murmur softly, a quiet exchange that Washington can't quite hear, and the door opens a little wider. Far enough for Hamilton to accept a small sheaf of papers handed to him from the hall. Then a mutter of goodnight, a quiet click, the heavy fall of the door latch back into place. Washington never caught a glimpse of whoever was on the other side of that door. More importantly, whoever it was did not see _him_.

For several seconds Hamilton stands perfectly still. One hand on the latch, face turned toward the door, fingers curled tight enough to crease the foolscap in his grip. Washington settles deeper in the chair, draping his arms atop the armrests and curling his fingers over the worn upholstery. Guilt rises anew in his chest. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't want Hamilton the way he does, and if Hamilton is having second thoughts—

Before Washington can sound the retreat, Hamilton moves. All stiffness loosens from his limbs as he turns his back to the door. He's holding the papers in both hands now, but paying them no mind as his gaze finds Washington across the room. Washington's breath lodges in his chest at the look in Hamilton's eyes: hot and hopeful and blatantly wanting. No one has ever looked at Washington like that before. Not even his wife.

God, his _wife_. Another reason—an obvious reason—that he can't let this happen. He holds tighter to the chair. He _has a wife_ , and he loves her. Their marriage may not be a passionate arrangement, but Martha still deserves better. He needs to remove himself from this room.

But Hamilton is approaching now, dropping the papers carelessly atop the desk on his way past. Hamilton's eyes are bright. His lower lip is caught uncertainly between his teeth, and his hair is a disheveled mess. The blush along his skin is so pronounced Washington can discern it clearly in the flickering lamplight. He's a vision, utterly obscene, and Washington's mouth waters at the sight.

A moment later and Hamilton stands immediately before him, peering down at him where Washington reclines in the chair. It takes unimaginable willpower to _not_ grab Hamilton by the hips and drag him down across Washington's lap, especially when he sees that Hamilton's arousal has risen as stiff as his own.

They regard each other in silence for several seconds. It's Hamilton who breaks the stillness, nudging his leg against Washington's knee. There's so much eloquence in the small gesture, compounded a moment later when Hamilton licks his lips and speaks in an impossibly quiet voice.

"Sir, can I?"

Washington stares up at him and swallows hard. Then, without taking his eyes from Hamilton's face, he spreads his legs wide in answer.

Hamilton is alarmingly graceful, slipping to his knees in the space between. He's less graceful when he leans forward to struggle with the fastenings of Washington's breeches, but Washington makes no move to help. His head is reeling, and it's not just the alcohol. He shifts his weight, releases his anchoring grip on the chair in order to touch Hamilton's face, gentle and wondering. A moment later and he threads his fingers through soft hair.

He nearly groans in relief when Hamilton's hands touch him and—God, _finally_ —draw his cock free from the confines of stiff fabric.

For a ridiculous instant, Washington wishes he were sober. His head is such a whirlwind of drink and desire, and he knows tomorrow his memories of this will be fuzzy and fragmented. God damn it, he wants to remember. If he can only have this once—and surely he can only have this once—he wants the memory to be clear and vivid. Curse the wine blurring his thoughts and making his head heavy.

Then again, if he were sober—if either one of them were sober—this wouldn't be happening at all.

Hamilton is peering up at him from where he kneels between Washington's legs. They stare at each other for several unsteady seconds, Hamilton's face flushed, his fingers curled loosely around Washington's cock.

Then Hamilton leans forward, and his attention shifts down to Washington's lap.

He sounds somehow both embarrassed and hungry when he breathes, "You can pull my hair if you want. You can— Whatever you want. You don't have to be gentle.

Washington's voice sticks in his throat. And then Hamilton's mouth is on him—that damnable, ceaseless, clever mouth—and Washington's voice knocks loose, but it's only to moan aloud as his eyes flutter shut at the ecstasy of sensation.

Christ, he's wondered if Hamilton would be good at this. Suspected he might have experience putting his clever mouth to such uses. But Washington's imaginings were nothing to how it feels to be encased in that slick, perfect heat.

Hamilton takes his time, wanders, teases. Open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, maddening swipes of his tongue, a stroke of fingers to keep Washington guessing. By the time Hamilton takes him into his mouth in earnest, bobbing low to draw him deeper, Washington is nearly out of his mind with need. At the first fluttering swallow of that tight throat around the head of his cock, Washington curses aloud, hips rising from the chair—fucking deeper and making Hamilton draw back with a choked sound.

"Are you all right, my boy?" he asks, though he's already twisting his fingers tighter in Hamilton's hair just to hear him gasp.

" _Yes_." Hamilton bends over Washington's lap and takes him in once more.

Washington lets him work for a moment—enjoys the view of Hamilton's head bobbing up and down over his cock—relishes the sight of Hamilton's mouth stretching wide around him.

Then, greedier desire overtaking him, he rearranges his grip and curls his fingers around the base of Hamilton's skull. He feels a surge of power, of wild satisfaction, as he wrests control from Hamilton, urging a different pace. Faster. Deeper. Hamilton keeps one hand braced on Washington's thigh for balance. The warm point of contact is grounding, strangely intimate considering the greedy way Washington is currently using Hamilton's mouth.

Hamilton gags when he goes too fast, when Washington drags him down too far and too hard on the length of his cock, but the discomfort doesn't seem to dissuade him. If anything he rallies with even more vigor, sucking harder when Washington forces him down, moaning wordless pleas whenever Washington withdraws too far.

"Alexander," Washington warns when he's close, giving a light tug at his hair.

But Hamilton ignores the warning—or rather, welcomes it—hollowing his cheeks, swallowing as Washington spends in his mouth. Washington clenches his jaw, overwhelmed by a sunburst of sensation, and barely manages to choke back a shout that would surely damn them both. He stays quiet, barely, as the wave of his own orgasm crests and shatters over him.

He's breathing hard when his thoughts reassemble, and he finds Hamilton still kneeling at his feet.

"Get up here." He drags at Hamilton's arms, urging him up onto the chair—astride his lap—where Washington can touch him the way they both desperately need.

He fumbles Hamilton's breeches open, uncoordinated and hurried, and palms the hard line of his cock. It doesn't take long. Hamilton's dark eyes are wide and lost, his every breath panting through slack lips, his skin flushed with heat. Washington has no particular talent for this, but it seems there's little finesse necessary when Hamilton is already so close.

Washington works him over with one strong hand, watching Hamilton's face with hungry focus. Watching him come apart with every merciless stroke. He thrills at the hot, uneven breath on his neck when Hamilton collapses forward, helpless and trembling and clinging like Washington's broad frame is the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Come for me, Alexander," Washington murmurs.

And Hamilton does. He breathes a shattered sound, his slick release making a mess of Washington's waistcoat.

Washington doesn't mind.

He has other waistcoats.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Washington wakes to daylight, with a dry mouth and a pounding rebellion beneath his skull.

His first thought is surprise at waking alone in his own bed. His second thought is confusion, because of course he is waking alone in his bed, why should it surprise him? The roiling tide of his own thoughts—not to mention his unsettled stomach—makes it immediately evident that he drank to excess last night. A foolish thing to do, and not at all like him. He still has a convention to direct, and today will be a fresh hell of his own making.

His third thought is a lightning flash of memory that dispels his previous confusion.

Hamilton.

Hamilton beneath his hands. Hamilton murmuring confessions into his skin. Hamilton choking on his cock.

Hamilton sleepy and affectionate when Washington curled behind him in the narrow bed, as though such intimacy wasn't something new and strange between them.

Washington doesn't remember leaving. He doesn't remember relocating to his own chambers, though thank God he did. He hopes he was discreet, and already he is berating himself for his recklessness.

Not only for his recklessness. No, Washington has far more to berate himself over than the risk of being caught and exposed. His gut churns as he remembers clearer patches of last night. Using Alexander, rough and callous and selfish. Taking advantage of his perpetual eagerness to please. Never mind the things Hamilton said, the plea in his voice. Washington had no right to take what was offered.

That he was drunk is no excuse. That Hamilton was also drunk only compounds his guilt.

He can only imagine what Hamilton must think of him this morning. He can picture all too clearly the recriminations he will find in Hamilton's eyes when their paths cross.

For a fleeting instant he finds himself picturing Eliza's lovely face, and the guilt in his chest twists deep and sharp like a shard of glass. Martha's face follows soon after, an expression of quiet disappointment, of wounded betrayal.

Washington pushes all of that aside more easily than he expects. The culpability he feels towards both women is nothing compared to the fear of losing Hamilton's esteem.

He's still in a fog when he reaches the gallery, early enough that men are milling about in no obvious hurry to begin. His headache throbs dully, but his stomach has settled. He tries not to seek Hamilton out too obviously, but of course his eyes track immediately to a corner of the room where Hamilton is holding court with a handful of northern delegates. Hamilton is speaking—of course Hamilton is speaking—and his voice carries clearly across the room.

No one seems to have noticed Washington's arrival yet, so he allows himself a surreptitious moment to watch. It's unfair that Hamilton doesn't look to be suffering for the quantity of wine they consumed last night. His demeanor is radiant, his hair perfect, his expression untroubled in profile. No different than the day before. Washington feels like he himself must look wretched indeed.

Then again, perhaps it's foolish to compare. Even on a normal day Hamilton is on the verge of exhaustion; perhaps being hungover as well simply doesn't bother him.

Unbidden, Washington remembers a glimpse of last night: Hamilton's posture loose, eyes closed, lips stretched wide around Washington's cock. He pushes the memory aside. It's remarkably difficult to do.

Washington's breath freezes in his chest when Hamilton turns and catches sight of him. For all the noise and restless movement filling the gallery, a moment of stillness passes between them.

Then Hamilton smiles. The expression is as carelessly honest as everything else about Alexander Hamilton. Huge and open and genuine. The look draws attention from the men Hamilton was speaking to, but Washington doesn't care. He's too busy absorbing the warmth of that look. 

Hamilton isn't angry with him. Hamilton is _smiling_.

There are still a hundred reasons last night was a mistake. A hundred more reasons it can't happen again. Yet meeting Hamilton's eyes across the crowded meeting room, Washington thinks maybe it will.

When Hamilton looks away, there's something in his manner that leaves Washington convinced Hamilton will come to his chambers tonight. There will be no wine this time. They'll talk— _really talk_ —sober and careful like they weren't last night. And maybe…

God, maybe…

Maybe this is one bad idea Washington will pursue after all.


End file.
